


Scars of Dragonfire

by dragonwriter24cmf



Series: The Forest King [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Battle of Five Armies, Eve of battle, Gen, Healing, Hurt, Not Canon Compliant, Old Wounds, POV Alternating, Peacemaking, Scars, slight AU, truce between enemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22231297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: Thorin and Thranduil think about scars revealed, and scars unseen, and their effects upon the relationship between their peoples. And the consequences for the upcoming battle.
Series: The Forest King [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600249
Kudos: 19





	Scars of Dragonfire

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Characters belong to J.R.R Tolkien primarily, and somewhat to Jackson by interpretation.

**Scars of Dragonfire**

**Thranduil:**

Thranduil watched as the guards dragged Thorin away. He was still struggling to control his temper. And his shaking.

Taking the spells off of the scars, even for the brief moment he had, hurt. The spells hid his wounds from the world, and healed as much as could be done. But he'd learned long ago....what dragon-fire burned, it burned for a long time. Forever, or until that which it touched was utterly destroyed.

Centuries had passed. He had long grown used to moving carefully, to wearing only certain kinds of cloth against his body. To waking in the night, when his dreams caused him to accidentally brush the too-sensitive flesh and wounds against his bed linens. And he had certainly grown used to using his power to hold the spells in place that masked the damage, and eased his suffering. 

He was still trembling with the pain. And with fury.

Only once or twice before had he bared these scars to another. He had allowed his son to see them, as a gesture of kinship, a gesture of trust. His wife had seen them as well. But aside from his family, he had only revealed them once.

He had gone to Thror, and to Thrain, to warn them what delving too deeply into Erebor would do. Dragons loved riches, and there was no surer way to draw one than to have a wealthy kingdom. The wealth of dwarves was everywhere renowned, but he'd known that Thror had ambitions to create a kingdom unsurpassed by any other. And he'd known what would come to pass, if Erebor became as rich as Thror's ambitions and dreams willed it to be.

He had warned them, and been brushed away, ignored.

He had thought to leave them to their folly, until the news of the Arkenstone had come, and with it, the news of Thror's inflated pride. His new declaration as 'King Under the Mountain'. His new-found belief that the gem he had wrested from the mountain's heart was proof of his right to rule, his divine protection.

If there was any lure that could draw a dragon faster than gold, it was the desire to quench and destroy such monumental pride. To see that which was powerful laid to waste and huddled beneath their claws.

He had gone to the Dwarven King again, and that time he'd used stronger language. That time, he'd been desperate enough to demand to see Thror in private, and to reveal the wounds upon his face, testament to his own encounter with a dragon.

Thror had laughed at him. Scoffed at him, saying Dwarves could handle a dragon. Made boasting comments about how folk who withstood forges hot enough for mithril shaping were far better equipped to handle a creature of fire than woodland dwellers. Spoke of how Dwarven armor and steel could endure much that weaker folk, and weaker weapons, would fall beneath. As if his own kindred had not forged swords and armor in their day that would make Dwarves weep with envy. He was no smith, but he knew of elven smith-work, and he'd have wagered the blade he carried against a hundred of those forged by Thror and his kindred.

He had left the hall in a fog, his feelings a mix of anger at being ignored, fear for what would eventually come, and humiliation, that he had revealed his greatest pain, and been mocked for it.

He had hoped that Thorin Oakenshield, having spent more time in the real world and seen the dragon's wrath first hand, would be more susceptible to reason. Would be more polite. But apparently, exposure to a dragon's fire and a lifetime of labor and exile had left Thorin no less proud and stubborn than his sire and grand-sire. Certainly, he was no less self-centered, acting as if his hurt and loss were so great that the world should have come running to save him.

The Dwarf had called him honor-less. That had infuriated him. He had come to see Erebor. And had the Dwarves managed to hold their ground even a tenth as well as Thror's boasting claimed they could, he might have fought. But the dwarves had been routed, and attacking a dragon in it's lair, a dragon entrenched, was tantamount to suicide. As the ruler of his folk, it had been his duty to keep them away from death, not throw them into it without heed to the cost of lives. And after Thror's sneering at him, he had owed the man little in the way of aid to begin with. Certainly the King Under the Mountain had never apologized for the failure to heed his warning.

He had revealed his scars to give Thorin a graphic example of why he hadn't charged into Erebor to save the Dwarven kingdom, to show how well he understood a dragon's inferno. But he hadn't been willing to let the Dwarf Prince insult him as his grandfather had.

Thranduil settled into his throne, breathing deep to control his temper. He sat for a long moment, then lifted his hand to his face.

The magic he used hid the scars of his burns, and soothed them somewhat. But it did not hide them from touch. He ran his fingers over the wounds, then jerked his hand away with a wince as a low thrum of pain knifed through the seared and tortured flesh. After all this time, the wounds were still so sensitive. He lowered his hand, noticing the way his fingers trembled, and curled it into a fist.

Thorin Oakenshield and his kindred could rot in the dungeon for all he cared. He had hoped to work out a deal, knowing that Thorin wanted the Arkenstone. He had always been fond of the starlight jewels that the dwarves sometimes found, and had the little band they'd gathered possessed a workable plan, and the humility and wisdom to share it, he'd have been willing to support it. Particularly if it could bring trade to his door and get a dragon away from his kingdom. But not like this. If the grandson was really as reckless and over-proud as his grand-sire, then it was better that they remain in his keeping. The world was dangerous enough without fools trying to stir up more trouble.

**Thorin:**

Thorin scowled and kicked at the bunk in his cell. Damn the Elf King for suggesting he owned the Elves anything. And the forest lord had no right to be incensed over his questioning their honor. The Elves had been quick enough to turn their backs on Erebor's plight before. 

Thranduil had been his grandfather's partner, and he hadn't even tried to help. There'd been enough dwarven warriors to at least make an effort against the dragon, if only they'd had someone to assist them. Too many had been taken by surprise. The elves could have turned the tide, helped them reclaim the fortress keep and the Mountain, if only they'd made the effort.

He didn't trust Thranduil's word. No more than he liked the Elven King's condescending attitude. He'd rather die than concede anything to them. And he still had hopes that Bilbo, who he hadn't seen among them at their capture, would be able to pull off another one of his reckless little miracles. He still hadn't figured out how the hobbit had escaped from the Goblin king in the mountains, or the spiders in the forest. But the plot with the trolls, for all that it had been the hobbit's fault they'd been caught, had been clever. And Bilbo's skill at getting into and out of things seemed to have grown and been polished since then. So there was a chance that he could do something. In the meantime, however, he had nothing to do but sit and think.

A slight chill went up his spine, as he recalled the scars Thranduil had revealed, for that one instant before he'd summoned the guards. The ugly network of blackened, seared flesh and exposed muscle that made up half his face. Possibly more than half, if he considered the way Thranduil had jerked back and pulled the spells back into place. He had heard the way the Elven King's voice had cracked, and recognized the sound for pain. He had seen the way Thranduil had trembled, heard his gasping breath as he pulled away, covered the wounds once more with magic.

Thorin shivered a little. He'd had burns himself, plenty of them. No one who worked in a forge could avoid burns, not with the best will in the world. He knew how much they hurt. And he had never had burns such as that.

He recalled what one of his forge teachers had told him, in their lessons. The hotter the forge, the greater the danger. The hotter the fire, the deeper it seared. The deeper the burn, the longer it tormented the one whose flesh had felt the fire. Steel workers could receive burns that hurt for weeks, even months. Gold smiths were less likely to suffer. Mithril workers, on the other hand....

Only the greatest of smiths could work mithril. Mithril forges burned hottest of all. And a burn from molten ore, or from the forge...smiths called them the eternal fires. Burns that hurt for years after being inflicted. Flesh that was sensitive and raw even after healing had taken place. Often, the burns were fatal, but when they weren't they were agony to carry.

Legend said that dragon-fire was hotter by far than even the hottest mithril forge. He believed it. He'd only had glancing exposure to it in Smaug's attack on Erebor, but he remembered how it had warped his armor even in those few moments, even as far away as the dragon had been.

From the look of it, Thranduil had been far closer to dragon-fire at some point. And if the way his voice had cracked and roughened was any indication, the burn was every bit as agonizing as his old forge teacher had said such things could be. Unless he knew the healing spells of his people, and was good at using them, Thranduil must suffer daily, hourly, in constant torment from his wound.

Eternal fire indeed. Somehow, he'd never really comprehended being burned that badly. He was more use as a Prince than a smith, and while his work was passable, good compared to humans, he was hardly more than mediocre in terms of his own people. He'd never been near the mithril forges, nor burned by anything more than gold or steel. He'd never quite comprehended what his forge instructor meant. He suspected that Thranduil would have understood his old teacher perfectly.

He still hated the Elf. He still didn't trust him, nor his pledges of aid. He still resented being treated as if he owed the Elves something. And he still hadn't forgiven the Elven King for abandoning his people to their fate, to the loss of Erebor.

But staring into the darkness of his cell, with nothing to do but think, he thought he might understand, a little, the choice Thranduil had made. Not that he didn't think the Elf was a bit of a coward. After all, he and his kin were going to face the dragon, fire or no. And some of them, himself included, had seen what dragon-fire could do. But then, Thranduil's choice wasn't much different than the one his cousin Dain had made. And he didn't particularly hate Dain. Scorned him, perhaps, but not hate. The idea that he might not be fair in hating the Elven King annoyed him.

Thorin scowled and kicked the wall again. He didn't care to be thinking about these things. He silently damned Thranduil again, for locking him up, for leaving him here, with nothing to do but stare at the darkness and ruminate on things he'd rather not think about. For leaving him with nothing but thoughts to try and distract him from his growing desperation to escape, to get away and continue his quest. Time was all too short, and it was swiftly fading away.

A clink outside distracted him, and he looked up to see a rather sheepish looking hobbit trying to find the key to his door. Thorin smirked as he rose to his feet.

Time to give Thranduil something unsettling to think about.

**On the Slopes of the Lonely Mountain:**

Thorin scowled down the mountain, at the campfires circling the base of it.

Two days ago, everyone in those camps, around those fires, had been enemies of his. Elves and Men, come to claim the mountain treasure for their own, or at least a portion of it.

He might have conceded Bard's claim, given that the man had killed Smaug, and that the Dwarves had been partially responsible for the dragon's attack on Lake-town. And he had promised the Master of the town that they would receive gold as compensation for the help they had received. But the way the men had marched on the mountain and demanded payment, without giving them even a week to reclaim their home, that had annoyed him.

And he'd be damned if he was going to concede anything to the Elves. As far as he was concerned, he owed them nothing. They had not helped him in this quest, no more than they had helped him when Erebor fell. True, the Prince and the one She-Elf had saved his cousins, but that had been a matter of vendetta against the orcs, and a seeming attachment between Kili and the woman. And between the Elven Prince and the female. Not something he owed them an obligation for.

He kicked a stone down the mountainside, frustrated with the way events had turned, and with his own reactions to the matter.

Two days ago, the allied forces of Men and Elves had been staring him down, preparing to lay siege to Erebor to force his hand. Only yesterday had Dain arrived, to give his folk a fighting chance.

He found that suspicious in and of itself. Dain had been among the first to refuse to help him in his quest to regain Erebor. And the fact that his cousin had arrived with a force big enough to occupy the mountain, but after the dragon had been taken care of, was...unsettling. But Dain hadn't challenged him, and he wasn't in a position to refuse the help of the Iron Hills Dwarves. Besides...at least Dain was kindred.

And now he was scowling down at the campfires of a whole host of enemies turned allies. Allies because that bloody nuisance of a thief and hobbit had stepped into the whole mess, and forced him to reconsider his 'no bargaining' stance. And because that blasted wizard, Gandalf, had informed all of them, in no uncertain terms, that the orcs were coming. The forces of the Necromancer were coming. And if they did not all fight together, they were all going to die.

None of them liked each others company, but none of them were stupid enough to deny the Wizard's words. Already, they'd dealt with the outrider scouts, and knew the main force would be upon them soon. Whatever lay between them in the matter of Erebor, all of them agreed that the orcs were a scourge on the land, and one that needed to be dealt with. Now. Together, if they must.

Allies in adversity. It frustrated him. Mostly because he didn't trust his fellow leaders, and they didn't trust him. And going into battle like this, there had to be some forging of goodwill, something that could make them stick together. Otherwise they'd be guarding against each other as much as the orcs. He knew he was too honorable to stab them in the back, but Gandalf, Bilbo and even Balin had made it plain, in varying terms and politeness, that he'd given his fellow kings no reason to trust. Bard, he suspected had honor similar to his own, but where Thranduil stood on that measure he'd no idea.

He hated the idea of losing face. But something had to be done, and he suspected his fellow rulers had done all they intended in agreeing to stand beside him on the field of battle. Which meant, if there was to be any forging of even temporary bonds, it would have to be his doing. The question was what he should do, that could be interpreted as a gesture of peace, without being a gesture of weakness.

Bard...he'd noticed the man's armor. Old and patched, with signs of wear and damage and poor maintenance. Expected, given that armor was little use against a dragon, and few other things came this way. Well, there was armor made for Men among the halls of Erebor. Or at least better weapons than those the men of Lake-town boasted. A good sword, and perhaps some Dwarf-forged mail...or a helmet. That wouldn't be taken too amiss, nor look too weak. He knew where the armor was stored, and it would only take a few minutes to make some selections. Perhaps if he could find a good bow, the man did seem to favor long range weapons. Surely they had some extra arrows and such they could spare.

As for Thranduil...well, he'd rather spit in the Elf's face. But this wasn't the time to indulge in old hatred and grief. So...he paused, remembering his time in Thranduil's kingdom, and a single moment of vulnerability he'd glimpsed. Wounds in an ageless face. Unhealing burns, and a voice that cracked with pain.

His people knew how to treat burns, even the worst kind. And his healer cousin had made enough high quality burn salve to coat all of them twice over before they'd begun the journey, in anticipation of dragon-fire. Thranduil's spells most likely muted the pain the old scars caused him, but he doubted that anyone, even the Elven King, could hold such spells in the tide of battle. Perhaps...a little assistance in the matter would not go amiss.

He considered the possibility for a few moments, then nodded. It would do. He studied the camps in the twilight, noting where the banners for the leader's tents were, then turned and strode into the mountain to collect what he needed.

*****SoD*****

Thranduil stood on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, gazing at the grounds below. Tomorrow, and likely tomorrow night, they would see fighting here. Brutal fighting.

He'd come to find his son and his captain, stayed to deal with orc problems, and agreed to ally himself with the Men against the inhabitants of Erebor because he had a grievance to settle with them. And now he was allied with Dwarves as well. A necessity. He did not doubt doubt Gandalf's words concerning the forces that were coming against them. Only a fool doubted a Wizard, and this wizard in particular. He had heard of Gandalf, from his kinsfolk in Lothlorien and Rivendell, and knew better than to treat the wizard's warnings lightly. Even if he hadn't received report of having to repel a rather large advance scouting party of Wargs and Orcs some hours ago.

Allies in adversity. He had hoped to remain completely free of these concerns of the world. But if it was not to be, if the darkness was to besiege him, then so be it. He had allied with men before, and had no particular feelings one way or the other about them, but he sensed that Bard was an honest and straightforward man, and that was good enough. Besides, Lake-town had been a trading partner with his people for many years, and never had they betrayed him.

As for Thorin Oakenshield and his people....well, he had existed with them in uneasy truce before, and saw no reason he could not learn to again. Besides...after this, there would be no more grounds to claim that he had abandoned them to their fate and turned a blind eye to their plight. He was helping them now, and that ought to silence some of their bluster about old wrongs. Some of the Dwarves had seemed almost reasonable, like the older white-haired one. And the hobbit had certainly been reasonable, and willing to listen to his terms. Perhaps things might be mended at least to an uneasy peace once more. And perhaps he could get his starlight gems after all.

A whisper of stone falling down the mountain made him turn. He expected to see Bard, or Gandalf, or perhaps even the Hobbit, since one of his own attendants would have let him know they were there before venturing so close. Instead, he found himself face to face with Thorin Oakenshield himself.

A long moment of silence passed between them. Thorin looked uncomfortable, and quite unwilling to speak. It was almost amusing, but he'd no wish to stand there in a staring contest with the Dwarf King all night. So, as the dusk deepened around them, he broke the silence. “Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. And what might you be doing here?” He kept his words just polite enough to maintain appearances, but left no doubt as to his real feelings.

Thorin caught the veiled mockery in his voice, judging by the flush in his face, visible even in twilight, but surprisingly, the Dwarf did not respond to it. “I have some business with you.”

“Do you?” That made him raise one eyebrow in more than polite interest. “And what business does the Mountain King have with me? If it is a fight you want, it would be better to wait until after tomorrow.” He let a cold smile curl one corner of his mouth. “Patience is a virtue.”

Thorin scowled. “I would like nothing better than to wipe that smirk off your face, Thranduil Elven-king. But be that as it may, you are correct.”

Thorin huffed, forcing his temper back under control, then spoke. “I do not like you. I do not trust you. I still remember the fall of Erebor, and how you turned your back on us. But now is not the time for that. And if we are to be allies against the Orcs, then so be it. My forefathers knew how to maintain such an alliance, and I will not be less than they. Nor will I allow these...animals, this scum of orc-kind, to claim my home as they once claimed Moria. If the price of crushing such filth from existence is an alliance with you, then so be it. Alliance there will be. And if it is to fail, I shall not be the one to fail it.”

“I see.” Thranduil was almost impressed. Thorin was a straightforward individual, blunt to the point of rudeness, and he could sense the Dwarf's sincerity now. Grudging sincerity, laced with anger, but real enough. “Perhaps you...are different than your grandfather after all. Certainly, your manners have improved since your time within my halls.” He still remembered the insult the Dwarf had hurled at him during their talk, the one that had caused him to lose his temper.

Thorin scowled. “I have been...informed...that perhaps there are more important matters at hand than old angers. Master Baggins was...kind...enough to relay your viewpoint on the issue to me.”

“Indeed.” He remembered well the Dwarf's fury when he'd realized that Bilbo had gone and negotiated with them, with Elves and Men, on his own. But then, the hobbit had given him some words as well. Very polite words, almost timid, but there had been no mistaking the tones of disapproval. “It seems that Master Baggins has taken it upon himself to teach us all some lessons.” Including a very important one about not underestimating Hobbits.

Thorin snorted. “Received a talking to from our burglar as well, have you?”

“And the Wizard.” Being scolded by a hobbit and a wizard was strange ground to find as a common point of experience, but there were worse to know.

Silence fell between them, then Thorin spoke again. “We will see battle tomorrow. Will you fight?”

Thranduil smiled, a cold smile. “And why would I not? Orcs are not Dragons, and I do not fear them. I do however, hate them as much as you do.”

Thorin shrugged. “I wondered. I know you are wounded.”

Thranduil tensed as fire and ice settled in his gut. He knew what Thorin meant. “You will not speak of that.” His voice was a rough, frozen whisper. Anger built in him, that the Dwarf would mock him for those scars, and on the eve of battle.

Thorin didn't heed his tone. “My people are used to tending such wounds. Burns are not so uncommon at the forges. We have learned to make salves and ointments to treat even the worst of burns. My cousin made some before we began this journey, and more when we arrived. It works well, even on the scalds of dragon-fire.”

Surprise cooled some of the anger in his blood. “You offer me assistance?”

“I do. I may not like or trust you, but to leave an ally at a disadvantage when something can be done is dishonorable. I will not stoop so low.” Thorin met his glare, then reached into a pocket of his cloak and removed a container, which he held out. “Balin used this to tend the scorch marks I obtained when we tangled with Smaug.”

Thranduil stood still, thinking. He hadn't expected that. The part of him that still roiled in sullen anger was tempted to make an icy comment and walk away. But he was aware, as he always was, of the slight strain that came from holding the magic active. It was more noticeable, this far from his woodland realm. And battle was no place for distractions, as he well knew. Holding the spells would hardly be a problem, but if they slipped, or if...when, rather, something struck him on that side, he would be vulnerable. Dangerously so. If the salves of dwarves could indeed ease the pain in his wounds, it was worth trying.

He contemplated simply taking the jar, with a polite thanks. But he was curious. How far was Thorin Oakenshield willing to go, to prove his words? More than that, Thorin was giving him a peace offering, of sorts. Courtesy dictated he offer something as well. He considered a moment, weighing his options, and came to a decision. “Accompany me.”

Thorin tensed. “What?”

He had already turned back toward his tents, but he turned to face the Dwarf once more. “If you are sincere in your offer of aid, then come with me. Unless you fear treachery on the eve of battle.” He offered the Dwarf King a cold smile, daring him to comment.

“I fear nothing.” The words were gritted between clenched teeth, but Thorin stepped forward. “Lead on then.”

Thranduil nodded and turned back down the slope, winding his way down the slope in the near darkness that had settled over them. He heard Thorin following him, the Dwarf's steps louder but much more sure on the slopes than he was.

His aides had already lit the lanterns in his tent when they arrived. He stepped aside to gesture Thorin inside, noting that his guards went instantly on alert, and that Thorin did the same. He considered leaving them, if for no other reason than to make the mountain king uncomfortable, then dismissed the idea. He would have no one see what he was about to do, however this little scene transpired. “Leave us. And tell my son and the commanders that I am not to be disturbed.”

The guards both looked apprehensive. “My Lord....”

“I said, leave us.” He let his voice grow colder. Both guards bowed, then walked away into the gloom. He watched them go. No doubt Legolas would disregard his orders at some point tonight, but for now, he had some time. After all, his son was a restless one, and the guards would have to find him before they passed on his message. Then Legolas would think it over, then decide to disobey his father. Hopefully, by the time he got around to visiting the tent, Thorin would be long gone.

He entered the tent to find Thorin scowling and ill at ease. The Dwarf glared at him as he entered. “Why have you brought me here?”

“I told you. You have offered me your assistance, and I have accepted.” He unbuckled his sword belt and set it to the side, within easy reach. “You once called me without honor, for not rushing to aid you against the dragon.” A cold smile twisted his face. “Since you have offered me relief, I think it only just that you see exactly  _ why _ I will not rush blindly into dragon-fire. Not for you, nor for any other.” He began to unfasten the heavy overcoat he wore.

Thorin watched silently as he unfastened coat, then the under-jacket, and began to undo the fastenings of his shirt. Thranduil felt his shoulders tensing, unease filling him at what he was about to reveal. And yet, he had to give the Dwarf credit. He was staying, and he hadn't made any sharp or disgusted remarks. Perhaps whatever the Hobbit and Wizard had told him had been more effective than he'd thought.

Thranduil undid the last button on his shirt, then laid the garment aside, shivering a little as the cool air touched his naked shoulders. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come, then let the spells that surrounded the left half of his body flow away.

Pain. The dull agony of the seared, never truly healed flesh. He could not suppress a groan as the feeling of those wounds returned, and closed his eyes against what he knew was being revealed to Thorin's sight. Bared, almost melted patches of exposed muscle, where the skin had never fully regrown, much though the healers had tried to repair his tortured body. Raw and blackened flesh, like seared meat, and the red and white patches of lesser burns that surrounded the worst damage. His face, a raw ruin on the left side and across the bridge of his nose, where the metal of his helmet had become super-heated and burned his face. His throat, with the scars of lighter burns, for he'd thrown up his arm to shield himself. His arm, burned in irregular patches above the elbow, and almost totally from the elbow down. The huge, ugly, uneven burn that covered his left side, almost to the waist, across his chest and over his shoulder blade and around his rib cage. Ugly roped scars and livid wounds.

As the spells fell away, he felt the air on the exposed wound, and it hurt. The cold seemed like a knife now, but he knew from old experience that if he attempted to be warmer, it would hurt more.

For a long moment, all he could do was stand there, breathing and trying not to reveal the torment that dropping the spells had subjected him to. Even so, he could not stop himself from trembling from the pain, and hoped Thorin would attribute his reaction to the cold.

Finally, he had mastered himself as much as he was going to, and turned to face Thorin. “Well?” he spread his arms in a mocking gesture, trying to ignore the way his shoulder hurt. “Do you think I still lack honor? I showed your grandfather a part of this, when I warned him against delving so deeply. He did not heed me.”

“My grandfather is dead. And I am not him.” The words were growled out. Then Thorin gestured to a chair. “Sit.”

Bitter amusement flowed through him. “So arrogant, you will order me in my own tent?”

“You asked me here to aid you. If your intention was to ask me to tend your wounds, then sit.” Thorin smiled, a dark smile that was much like his own.

He hadn't expected that. He wasn't sure exactly what he had expected, showing Thorin this, but it hadn't been that. Still, if the Dwarf was offering to tend to his wounds...Thranduil moved and settled into the chair, hoping Thorin didn't notice the careful way he moved, and his stiffness.

Thorin shed his own coat and rolled up his sleeves, then unscrewed the lid of the container. “You should know, this is going to hurt. Don't move, unless I tell you.”

The first touch, on his brow and the bridge of his nose, felt like the fire licked him again. Thorin's hands were rough and calloused, and agony on sensitive flesh. It was all he could do to avoid screaming and jerking away, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight, hands clenched in the fabric of his trousers as the Dwarf applied a layer of salve across the tortured ruin of his face. But he would not have the Dwarf think him a weak coward, no matter what Thorin did to him. And he had asked for this.

The scent of athelas and herbs hung heavy in his nose, and he distracted himself with trying to discern what the other scents were. He hadn't thought that Dwarves used athelas. His own healers had used athelas to tend him when he had been burned, which was why he hadn't died, and his wounds had even healed as far as they had. But he didn't know the other scents. He wondered what they were, how they worked. Were there herbs that augmented the properties of kingsfoil? Or had the athelas been added to strengthen the salve as a whole? Or just as a pleasing and heartening scent?

The salve warmed to his body temperature, and suddenly, a soothing coolness seemed to flow over his face, down his throat, following the line of Thorin's ministrations. Not cold like the air, but as if the heat of fire had been replaced with a draught of spring water, fresh from the depths of the cellars, flowing through his veins and the muscles and nerves of his face. At least, that was the closest analogy his mind could come up with. The pain diminished, from excruciating to only somewhat uncomfortable, and easily bearable. Had he been any less dignified, or on his guard, he would have sighed with the relief. He felt a little dizzy, and wondered if it was an effect of the herbs, or simply the fact that, for the first time in a long time, he was free of his torment without recourse to his magic.

Thorin's rough tap on his arm roused him from the sensation. “Lift your arm and turn it over. I can't tend what I can't see.”

He did so, noting that Thorin had already spread the salve over his shoulder, back and chest, as well as his upper arm and outer forearm. “Your cousin does his work well.”

Thorin grunted. “He takes pride in his skill as a healer. Though he said Elvish healing is a wonder to behold. Given his comments, I'm surprised you still bear these wounds. I would have thought your people would do better.”

A bitter smile tugged his mouth. “Do you think I was the only one touched with dragon-fire, Thorin Oakenshield? A true ruler cares more for his people than his own desires. Besides...lesser wounds have killed.” He did not add that his throat had been burned, and inside his chest, when he had screamed. Much of the healer's energy had gone to mending that, so he did not die of seared lungs and choking on the ashes of his own burnt flesh.

Thorin said nothing, only applied a final layer of salve to the inside of his wrist, then capped the jar. “I'll send Balin with another container. I did not think you would need so much.” He sounded almost mocking, but for once, Thranduil had no desire to rise to the bait.

The last patch of agony dissolved into a cool ache. Thranduil exhaled, a slow deep breath, feeling almost drunk.

How long had it been, since he had felt such relief? He forced himself to keep his back straight, to maintain a regal posture and expression as he rose from the chair, testing the movement of his muscles.

It ached. But the same movements, un-numbed by magic and without Thorin's treatment, would have been torture, akin to having molten metal dripped across his skin. He flexed his fingers, noting the absence of the familiar twinge of nerves in his forearm. “Such a salve, capable of easing these wounds, would be worth...much.”

“As long as it is enough to ensure that I can trust you at my back in battle, that is enough for now.” Thorin scowled, and began to tug on his own garments, his desire to leave clear on his face. “Without some bond of trust, we will fall. I do not wish that, however much I dislike you. So...”

Thranduil nodded, and took a moment to slip into his own shirt. He hadn't renewed the spells, and was pleased to note that, while he felt the fabric, it did not feel like a wood-smith's file against his skin. “My trust and my support you have, Mountain King. In this, at least.” He knew better than to assume that battlefield relations would be maintained without some discussion.

“Then that is enough. I will leave you to your rest, and see you on the field tomorrow.” Thorin studied him a moment, then bowed his head in a short nod. “I will see myself out of your camp.” Thranduil inclined his head in agreement, and watched as the Dwarf King pushed his way through the covered tent doorway and disappeared into the night.

Thranduil slipped into his overcoat. His skin along the left side tingled and ached, like a limb asleep that was coming back to life. Odd, and somewhat uncomfortable, but nothing like it would have been. He wondered if this salve would enable him to sleep through the night. He had not done so for a very long time, and there were advantages to being well rested in a battle.

“Father...” Legolas stepped into the tent, then froze at the sight of the unhidden wounds upon his face and throat. “Your wounds....the spells...”

“I released them. A test, between myself and Thorin Oakenshield. He wished to test my ability to trust him, and I wished to test his sincerity and honor.” A test they had both passed, he thought. He gestured, and the illusion spells that usually covered his face flickered back into existence. It felt different, and much less stressful, not to hold the healing spells that he'd also maintained. “The result appears to have been worth the effort.”

“I was concerned. The guards said you sent them away.”

“I did not wish our discussion overheard, or watched.” He did not wish his people to know the extent of the wounds he bore.

Legolas nodded. “And you are all right? Do you need a healer?”

“I do not. Our healers would do better to take the night to rest. We will need them tomorrow. Sound advice to take for ourselves.”

Legolas nodded, recognizing the dismissal for what it was, then bowed and left the tent. Thranduil took a moment to calm his mind, then readied himself for bed. As he settled himself among his sleeping furs, his hand reached up to trace the wounds on his face.

The same gesture he had made over a month ago, after his last confrontation with Thorin, had hurt like knives jabbed into him. This time it only tingled, and caused a dull throb, like a poked bruise. He dropped his hand, thinking.

Long ago, Thror's scorn of his wounds had created an unbearable rift between their peoples. And there was still much resentment and hate on both sides. But Thorin's care of him, however grudging it had been...perhaps things were not completely unsalvageable.

He hoped the young mountain king survived the coming battle. They had much to discuss, if they were to heal the wounds that dragon-fire had left upon them all.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this between the second and third movies, primarily. Kind of as a what-if scenario, and kind of to align it a little more with the book. So...yeah, fudged a little, but I still think it came out okay.


End file.
